Sometimes the Cure is Worse than the Disease
by FrankieMittens
Summary: A man has been found stabbed and the prime suspect is no other than the missing Mr. Holmes.
1. Chapter 1

Hello dears,

My 2nd Sherlock FF, very excited about the idea myself - hope you will be too.

Repeating myself but English is not my native language, so any mistakes with the language are due to that - forgive me.

Usual disclaimers apply, naturally.

ML

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><p>Boredom manifests itself in a various ways, depending on the person experiencing it. Some fall to the plain state of passiveness; some get depressed; some get cranky and some merely try to occupy themselves with something, anything, to snap out of it. There are also different types of boredom. There are the ones you choose yourself - when the boredom is that of long Sunday afternoon after night of partying and it doesn´t really bother you all that much and the ones you are forced into - when you are waiting for something or someone in circumstances you have no control over and little to keep yourself busy. And then there is the boredom which is brutally forced on you by the sheer lack of anything interesting in the world, the type that can turn into something destructive because of the pure disregard of the consequences. This was the type of boredom Sherlock Holmes experienced.<p>

It was late summer in London, unusually hot and humid, and it dragged on like a grandmother with a bad hip crossing the street after the pedestrian lights have turned red a long time ago and your wife is on the backseat giving birth. The suppressing weather seemed to have paralyzed the whole city, and this resulted in the unfortunate fact that no case of interest had crossed the threshold of 221b Baker Street for a good while. Sherlock had been frustrated and tense, sulking and pouting and snappy, and it seemed only a grotesque serial killer or a suspicious order practicing some unholy rites could have brought an end to it. For the first time in his life Watson actually almost hoped that some kind of criminal mastermind would emerge and make living in Baker Street humanly possible again; now with what he had to deal with started to become too much. Sherlock was out of control, plainly put, and at times when John came home from running errands or attending some clinic hours and heard some strange noises protruding from their flat to the street, he was slightly afraid of going upstairs to see what Sherlock was in the middle of that time. The living space of Baker Street was more or less like it would have faced a bomb attack, and he chose not to even think what the state of Sherlock´s own bedroom was, given he locked himself in sometimes for days with only strange sounds and foul chemical smells being the only signs he was still alive. John coped with it the best he could - by staying away from the detective´s way, after the few miserably failed attempts to make human connection to him in the hopes of being able to distract him with something as mundane as conversation or offer of food.

It had been a particularly tediously hot day, the air was still and the promise of a massive thunderstorm was almost tactile in the early evening air. John had stepped out to get some air, which had proven to be a miscalculation of the worst kind; the air was like a warm, wet towel on his face and offered no cooling breeze what so ever. Determined to get out from the house for a while after having enough of the strange banging sound coming from Sherlock´s room, a one which sounded quite a lot like something being hammered through the floor, he had walked around aimlessly for about three quarters of an hour. He had been more or less lost in his thoughts, letting his mind wander, and without him even realising it his feet had take his back to Baker Street.

He stood outside for a while, listening if there was some other odd sound to be heard. The apartment seemed silent, however, and John, saying a little thank-you in his mind, opened the door and stepped in. He closed the door behind him and was enveloped in the dusk of the unlit hallway; it almost felt as if being embraced by a lover after the beating of the merciless sun. He stood there in the quiet corridor for a while his eyes closed, enjoying a moment of silence. As he started to make his way upstairs the silence was suddenly disturbed by arguing voices. He wasn´t quite able to make of what they were saying but he recognized the other one as Sherlock´s, whereas the other one, even though also a male voice, was higher and belonged to someone possibly younger, or at least in a more agitated state of mind.

Had stopped on the landing behind the door leading to their apartment and was unsure whether to go in or not. The decision was taken away from him as the door was slammed almost to his face and a man, dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt, about mid-20s to 30, gashed out and almost ran into John. The man, seemingly angry, pushed him aside against the wall, and turned his face into the room where John could see at least as angry Sherlock standing in the middle of the room, his hands clutched into fists.

"You _will _hear from me, Holmes, this ain´t the end of this!" With that the stranger turned, ran down the stairs and vanished from the door.

John looked after him for a few seconds, then turned back to the room and Sherlock. He was still standing in the same place, visibly stirred.

"What was that? _Who_ was that?" He knew he probably shouldn´t interrogate Sherlcok too much, especially in his current state of mind, but he couldn´t help himself from asking.

Sherlock looked at him as if he had only now realized John was in the room. "Just an old acquaintance." His voice held controlled anger in it.

Sherlock took two swift steps to the table and grabbed something from it, stuffing it in his pocket.

John looked at him, questioningly. "And that?"

Sherlock shrugged and slouched down on his chair. "Nothing." His voice made it clear there wouldn´t be any more elaborate answer provided. He took his violin which was resting on the floor and started playing vigorously, random excerpts of some long-forgotten melodies amplified to a speed which made them incomprehensible.

John cut in. "Sherlock!"

He throw the violin aside. "John." He suddenly sounded almost calm. Almost.

"Sherlock, what is going on? Are you in some kind of trouble?" John may have not sounded particularly worried, but inside he was. The character making his exit didn´t seem too trustworthy, and he could still see that Sherlock was if not upset, at least seemingly annoyed.

The dark man looked at him with his piercing eyes.. "That would at least make things interesting." He stood up, tall and thin, and left the room with long, fast steps. On his way he muttered over his shoulder, "Worry not, my dear Watson, I´ll take care of it."

The sound of the door slamming shut was the last he heard of Sherlock that night.

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><p>John woke up in the next morning to a persistent banging of the door. He glanced at the watch and saw it wasn´t even 7 AM. Grunting, he got up, threw on his robe and made his way to the door. He yanked the door open more or less convinced there would be Mr. Holmes who had, for some reason or another went out without his keys. "What now?"<p>

His surprise was more than evident on his face when behind the door he saw not his flatmate but Lestarde with two other officers. "Oh, sorry, I thought.. Nevermind." He shook his head and straightened himself a bit. "What´s going on?"

Lestrade looked grim. "Morning, John. May we come in?"

John was confused. There was something off in Lestrade´s behavior. He raised his eyebrow in a questioning manner, adopting a bit more formal tone himself. "Is this a drugs bust?" He was only half joking.

Lestrade glanced down on his shoes and then raised his eyes back to meet John´s. "John, we really need to come in."

"Fine, fine, come in." He stepped aside to give way. "You know your way, don´t you." There was no intonation to make the statement a question.

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><p>All upstairs, John didn´t ask the men to sit down. He tried to be as credible as he could in his robe and hair ruffled after a night´s sleep. "So what is it? Who died?"<p>

Lestrade clenched his jaw in an expression conveying the regret of being a messenger with bad news. "Is Sherlock here?"

John made a gesture which could have meant lack of knowledge or ignorance. "Probably in his room." He pointed to the correct direction.

Lestrade nodded to one of the officers accompanying him, who went for the door and knocked on it. "Mr. Holmes, would you please come out?" The man was young and sounded somewhat nervous.

In an instant John realized he had his hand on the holster of his gun. Something was seriously amiss here.

"What´s exactly going on here?" He looked at Lestrade with a demanding tone in his voice.

The officer at Sherlock´s door shook his head in a sign that there was no movement in Sherlock´s room. Lestrade nodded his head to the other officer who went to accompany the other behind Sherlock´s door. With a very quiet voice, he said, "Go in."

The other man opened the door from the handle and pushed it in, himself stepping aside from it, hand ready on the gun. Nothing happened, so he carefully peered in, never leaving his grip. "There´s no one here, sir." Relief was obvious in his voice.

Lestrade shook his head. "I didn´t expect there would be." He sounded almost resigned.

Before John had time to ask yet another time what the hell was going on, Lestrade put his hand on his shoulder. "John, I would very much appreciate if you would come with us, I need to talk with you."

Watson shook his hand off from his shoulder. His voice was a bit thicker than it had been. "First you tell me what is going on."

Lestrade sighed. "4.30 this morning there was a body found in Speaker´s Corner in Hyde Park. Stabbed, very imaginatively I might add. The assumed murder weapon was found about an hour later in one of the trash cans nearby."

John felt a grip around his chest, and although he dreaded the answer he had to ask. "What does this have to do with Sherlock?"

Lestrade looked at him, the agitation apparent in his tired eyes. "The fingerprints on the murder weapon belong to Sherlock Holmes."

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><p>Thank you for reading. ALL comments are welcomed, please spare a moment to review! If for nothing else, is it worth taking further?<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

Hello, all.

2nd chapter, took a while cos real life got on the way. I would appreciate very very much if you´d have time to leave a note, if for nothing else at least for me to know if it´s worth continuing this. Thank you!

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><p>The sun behind the somewhat dirty window of Lestrade´s office seemed way too bright, offensive almost. John was staring at the white bulb on the sky, his eyes narrowed, thinking the vastness of the Solar System- the object which made his eyes hurt was 8 minutes away when measured with the speed of light. How absurd was that?<p>

And yet the object which made his chest ache was somewhere on the same planet with him and that didn´t seem absurd at all.

Lestrade´s almost apologetic voice interrupted his existential ponderings. "So when was the last time you saw Sherlock Holmes?"

John sighed as only a man strained to his limits can. "You´re honestly going to make me go through this for the seventh time?"

Lestrade looked embarrassed. "I´m sorry, John, I have to." He lowered his voice a bit, to a comradely whisper. "It´s the policy." The recorder on the table most likely didn´t catch him.

John rubbed his eyes. "Right, right." He took a deep breath and delivered his long-rehearsed line with a monotonous voice. "The last time I saw Sherlock Holmes was July 29th, at around 8.30 p.m., in our shared flat at Baker Street 221b."

Lestrade nodded. "And can you describe the situation in which you saw him last?"

"I was out taking a walk. When I arrived home I heard arguing coming from our flat. As I was about to enter the apartment I was almost ran over by a man exiting the flat, around 25 to 30 years of age, black hair, slightly Hispanic looking. After that Iexchanged a few words with after which he retreated into his room and I did not see him anymore that night."

Lestarde cleared his throat. "And was there an oral exchange between the exiting man and Mr. Holmes?"

"No." John did not know why he had chosen to lie.

"And how did Mr. Holmes appear after you entered the flat? Was he in an agitated state of mind?"

"No. He was perfectly calm." Again.

"Did you ask about the situation?"

"No." This started to become a habit of his. What do you do for leisure? I lie at interrogations.

"Is there anything else worth mentioning in the said situation you think is of importance?"

John thought about the swift movement of Sherlock´s hand, grabbing something from the table and stuffing it in his pocket. "None what so ever." His voice was perfectly calm.

Lestarde stared at him and John stared back. He didn´t flinch.

It was Lestrade who first turned his look away. "Right." He stood up from his chair and walked to John´s, facing him. The light didn´t compliment him; the early morning sun made him look old and weary. "Well, I think that´s that for now, we´ll be calling you if there´s any further questions."

John looked at Lestrade, then to the tape recorded and back to Lestarde. He got the hint and turned it off.

John adjusted his position and crossed his fingers across his chest. "So. What is going on, exactly?"

Lestrade rubbed his temples. "Marco Paredes, 29, originally from Guatemala but in the UK since 2001. Been linked to the biggest operative drug gang in London but no definite evidence; under surveillance since January this year. Found dead this morning in Speaker´s Corner, cause of death yet unconfirmed but looks to be a stabbing."

John looked out from the window. The sun didn´t strike him in the eye anymore. He didn´t want Lestrade to continue but he did. "Suspected murder weapon found in the trash can of Marble Arch underground station about an hour later." He tossed a plastic bag on the table, a one containing a bloody knife. John recognized it and his heart felt cold. It was the very same one usually struck into the mantelpiece of the fireplace of Baker Street.

Lestrade studied his face. "You´ve seen this before, haven´t you?"

John shook his head. "Look, you can´t seriously think Sherlock did this."

A shrug, more in the sign of helplessness than anything else. "The evidence..."

"Seriously?"

Lestrade took a small notebook from the table and tossed it to John. "Look at this. Paredes had a proper distribution going on. Cocaine, some heroine, meth. Here," he pointed at the item John was now turning over in his hands, "is his customer list.

John glanced to the notebook but didn't open it. He knew what was coming up next.

"Sherlock´s on the list. And yesterday had a note with his initials on it."

John completed the stroy, almost unwillingly. "And now he is dead, there´s a bloody knife with Sherlock´s fingerprints on it and Sherlock is missing."

Neither of them knew what to say, so they stayed quiet.

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><p>It was completely dark when Sherlock came to his senses. He didn´t know where he was, or when it was; he didn´t know how he had got where he was or how he would get out. For a few seconds he closed his eyes and did his best to organize his thoughts; it seemed harder than usual.<p>

_drugged, concussion, lack of oxygen_

He opened his eyes and tried to focus his eyes on something. Slowly he was able to make shapes out of the darkness; wall of a building; trash cans; windows with stained glass; an alley cat staring at him with glowing eyes.

_back alley, somewhere in the city_

He tried carefully moving his fingers and toes. No problem. Lifting his head – a flash of pain shot through his body and he couldn´t help grunting. Slowly, slowly, concentrating on the pain and pushing it to the back of his consciousness, he lifted himself into a sitting position. He sat motionless for a while, waiting the pain to dull into a manageable thumbing. After a few minutes he was able to move enough so as to carefully examine his skull. He flinched a bit when his fingers touched the open wound on the back of his head.

_a single hit from behind, blunt object, force used not meant to kill_

He leaned himself on the wall and stood up. Staggering, still steading himself onto the cold brick surface for a support, he started to make his way towards a street light faintly glowing at the end of the alley. As the amount of light increased, his hand resting on the wall seemed to get more dark; he stopped to observe it.

Covered with blood.

_judging by the amount compared to the size of the wound not my own_

He stopped, leaning to the wall with his left hand, and traced back his movements as close to the current situation as he could.

_baker street – __marco – sms – marble arch -_

He knew where he had been and how and why he´d gotten there. After that, nothing.

He started making his way towards the light again. As he did, he felt something in his pocket. He reached his hand and pulled a small object out.

On his palm was resting a small stone, around which was wrapped a note. He unwrapped and straightened it. In the dim light the words written on it, with a neat, old-school handwriting, seemed sinister.

_**Deduct your way out of this, dear**_

He turned the note around, already knowing what was written on the other side. The single letter seemed to almost glow in the dark.

_**M.**_


	3. Chapter 3

It had took him a while to figure out where exactly he was. As he had surfaced to the main street from the little back alley he had woken up in he had to wander around a while before figuring his whereabouts. It turned out he was North of central London, and had no idea how or even when he had gotten there. It wasn´t a feeling Sherlock Holmes was familiar or comfortable with - being uncertain - and even though a man fond of experiments of all kind, he didn´t find his current state of mind pleasant at all. The setting, however, in which apparently Moriarty judging by the note had thrown him into, exhilarated him a bit, perhaps against his better knowledge. He knew something was seriously amiss - the throbbing headache due to the injury in his head, the blood of someone else coloring his hands and decorating his overcoat was enough to tell him that - and yet he couldn´t help himself from being intrigued, yearning to figure out what was going on.

Feeling still slightly woozy he walked slowly, gathering all the details he possibly could concerning his current situation. First the obvious - he had been hit in the head which had apparently caused some level of memory loss; he couldn´t recall the moments before losing his consciousness. Obviously some kind of drug used on him couldn´t be definitely ruled out either, but in all honestly he didn´t feel the after effects of any kind of narcotic - at least any kind he had experience on, and to be truthful he had experienced a lot.

When unconscious he had been brought to the location he had found himself in -the ground had been wet but his clothes were not, which meant he hadn´t been lying there for long even though the severity of the damage done to his memory indicated a unconsciousness of a relatively long time period. This raised a few obvious questions - who, why, and why here? Was there some significance to the spot? It wasn´t a place where he frequented, which meant not only that he didn´t know his way out in an instant, but also a complete anonymity for himself. Judging by Moriarty´s note he was in a middle of some kind of situation, possibly dangerous, and this time it was about him, not about solving a puzzle concerning someone else. He was the one being played at. So probably because of that he had been provided this quiet location where he would be unidentified had someone seen him - perhaps he was chased somehow, and this spot had been chosen so as to give him a little head start.

Then there was, of course, the little stone around which the note had been wrapped. It served of course a functional purpose, to make him notice the message as well as prevent it from falling out from his pocket, but Moriarty wouldn´t let this kind of opportunity to plant a hint go. The stone, now resting in his pocket, was obviously a clue.

But to what? What it was that was going on?

He had started walking towards South, his goal making it back to Baker Street. Judging by the darkness, temperature and lack of life on the street he estimated the time to be roughly around 3 to 4 am. There were no cabs in sight so he was forced to walk, slowly because of the thumbing, dull plain in the back of his head.

Passing a trash can his eyes caught a heading of a tabloid, thrown nonchalantly not in the bin but next to it.

**A MURDERER AT LARGE**

He grabbed the soggy paper and glanced through the article. As often is the case with yellow press the story offered very little information, but it appeared that a young man had been stabbed to death in a very vile manner last night, and that the murderer was at loose; the were little clues, at least according to the paper. However there had been a peculiar fact in the said murder - how the reporter had found out about it was unclear - there had been a little stone clutched in the hand of the stabbed man.

Sherlock´s hand traveled to his pocket his consciousness almost not realizing it. As his slender fingers curled around the small but surprisingly heavy object the message of the stone became apparent to him. His chest felt as if the weight of the stone would have been immersed to it.

_So I´m a murder suspect... This should be interesting_

The rush of adrenaline made him feel stronger. He switched his pace to jogging and started heading South.

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><p>Back at Baker Street, in spite of the very early hour, John was wide awake. Although he had been exhausted after the day he was now not able to sleep, but instead sat in the messy living room staring at the chaos mostly caused by Sherlock. The other ongoing chaos, not physical kind, however is what occupied his mind more.<p>

He thought about the day he had spent mostly with Lestrade, trying to make some kind of sense out of the situation. There was little success to it; it seemed that all the evidence was screaming Sherlock´s name. There was the murder weapon with his g´fingerprints, of course, and the fact that he was now missing. There was also his initials in the drug dealer´s book, and there was the stash of cocaine Lestrade and his team had found in Sherlock´s room. There was the irritation and boredom of the flickery genius which had prevailed the last few weeks, and there was the "i-told-you-so" look in Donovan´s eyes when she had met John´s eyes on his way out from the police station.

And yet John wouldn´t - couldn´t - believe that Sherlock would have killed Marco. But it seemed so obvious, so clear - and that´s what bothered him; it was too clear. Had Sherlock committed a murder surely he would have been more clever about it. Surely he wouldn´t have stabbed some poor bastard to death and thrown the knife away in a place where it likely would be found. If anyone were able of getting away with murder, John was pretty sure that was Sherlock - no matter how awful it was to think that.

So something else was going on, he had to believe that. At this point he chose to ignore the drugs and the fingerprints, what was more important was the question of Sherlock´s whereabouts. Was he missing voluntarily, or was he held somewhere? He couldn´t help worrying about him - maybe something had happened.

He stood up and stretched. As he did he felt his back ache from sitting in a bad position all night through - he wasn´t 20 anymore. Absent-mindedly he walked to Sherlock´s room and stopped at the door to look at the space in which not long ago Sherlock had been in. The room was messy but probably not only because of the search the police had executed; judging by the level of order Sherlock lived by in terms of the living room John would have imagined his own personal space was at least as bad. The truth was that he hadn´t been into his room before, and now as he was standing at the door it felt strangely intimate. He saw the piles of books on the floor, the dark blue shirt tossed on a chair, the odd-looking jars and cans covering most of the free surfaces. The walls were mostly plain - it seemed the collage work was reserved for the living room walls - and oddly enough the ajar door of the closet revealed his clothes were very much in order. John let his eyes wander around the room, observing the object that made the setting of Sherlock´s personal space. Table, two chairs, mounted cupboards, bed with ruffled sheets - for a few seconds his eyes stopped there and he imagined how Sherlock looked in his sleep - and then the thought was gone and his eyes were travelling again.

He didn´t want to enter the room, feeling it would be a violation of Sherlock´s privacy somehow. The police had taken Sherlock´s computer and the drugs they had found, but everything else was there. John preferred it so, to have all waiting for his return, and stepping back and turning around, closed the door quietly behind him.

Just as it was about to close he heard a quiet buzz coming from the room. He yanked the door open and froze to listen, trying to locate the source of the sound. It was coming from the level of the floor, so he dropped down on all fours and cocked his head like a dog, trying to pinpoint the buzz and at the same time fearing it would stop. It seemed to be coming from under the bed, and he made his way to it and lifted the bed cover hanging from the side of the furniture. He saw a beeper, tucked between the mattress and the frame, blinking its faint neon green light and quietly buzzing. Just as he saw it it stopped, as if it had been waiting to be found, and he reached out to grab it.

Grunting he got up and stared at the small screen and the words written on it. It was an address he recognized, and the initials after it - SH.

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><p>thank you for reading.<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

Thank you so much who have had the time to comment, and thank you for all the follows and favorites as well! I´m sorry it took a while to update, and I´m sorry this chapter is so short - RL is seriously interfering with writing. Will do my very best to write the next chapter faster, and make it longer as well.

Thank you for reading!

ML

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><p>It was around 5.30 am when Sherlock arrived to Baker Street. Not that he knew it, exactly, given that he had no watch or phone on him to tell him the time. The relative quietness veiling the streets still gave him enough feeling of comfort so as to move in plain sight, something which wouldn´t probably be the best idea once the city awoke . He realised he was probably under a warrant, and had every intention to avoid getting caught – no matter how highly Lestrade might have thought of him, there was no way he would have enough influence to have anything to say to his arrest – and to be fair Sherlock didn´t know if he would have even wanted to do so. If caught, he would not be able to solve the puzzle he had been thrown into – reasoning never seemed to work with the authority as well as it should have – so at free he must have remained.<p>

He approach the flat slowly, keeping an eye for any possible police officers who might have had the flat under surveillance. It seemed rather odd that it wouldn´t have been; but then again, the police probably thought it would have been extremely stupid of him to go home when he was labelled a murder suspect on a loose. Throw into that the lack of resources of which the London police force was infamous for and he counted it to be relative safe to venture home.

So home he went, and didn´t feel stupid at all.

As he turned from the corner and observed the street he saw it was empty, judging from the view he was offered at least, so he made his way to the flat with long, brisk steps, opened the door and was inside. Once the door was closed he lent on it, listening to the absolute quietness. All he heard was the sound of his beating heart, thumbing inside his chest and in the pulse in his blood, much faster than normal due to the adrenaline pumping in his veins. Yet he didn´t feel nervous, or scared – just being on the edge. His senses were sharp and his presence complete. He felt alive.

Quietly as a ghost he ascended upstairs and creaked the door of the flat open. Nothing but the already familiar quietness greeted him, so he slip inside, closing the door behind him with a small click. Without even properly thinking what he was doing he walked to the door leading to John´s room; for some reason it was the most important thing for him, to look at him in the eye and tell him what he hoped he already knew, that it hadn´t been Sherlock who had killed Marco Parades.

The door of John´s room door, slightly ajar, immediately raised his level of alertness. John always closed his door. Always. Something to do with his army background, Sherlock had reckoned. Suddenly much more anxious than he had been since he had came to his senses he pushed John´s door, not with much force but enough to make it slide fully open. John´s room was dim but not overly so, Sherlock was able to confirm the assumption he had already made as all that met his searching eyes was an empty room, empty bed. No John Watson.

And yet there was no reason why he wouldn´t be in his bed at this hour, he wasn´t seeing anyone, the clinic didn´t require night shifts – the only explanation was that something was amiss. Suddenly Sherlock felt that there was a sinister streak in the quietness and emptiness of the flat.

He stepped into the room and quickly browsed it with his stripping gaze, but didn´t notice anything out of the ordinary. Then he left the room and hurried into his own, finding it in a state which told the story of a thorough home search. Cursing out loud he went to the book shelf and pulled out a few selected books, only to find the shelf behind them empty. In frustration he threw the objects to the floor among the rest of the mess, turned on his heels and left the room.

Sherlock went to the living room and slumped down on the couch letting out a sound which could have been categorized as a frustrated sigh. He ruffled his hair, thinking. This was not good, that they had found what they had searched for, and that made things even more complicated for him. Added to that the alarming absence of John made the situation far from ideal - had Moriarty kidnapped him? Or was the police holding him?

For a brief moment he felt truly clueless. How to go about it? The clues he had were minimal - basically the note and the little stone in his pocket, and any information he had gotten from the newspaper. From the date of it he had been able to tell that he had lost a day - Marco had been killed approximately 24 hours before Sherlock had woken up on the alley. So where had he been? And how had he gotten there?

And most importantly, how to get out of the mess he was in, and how to locate John?

The answer to his last - perhaps also one of the most pressing - question came sooner than he would have imagined. His eyes had been wandering around the room, not really looking at anything, until in a flash he realized there was something in the room he hadn´t recognized. He traced his look back and locked his eyes on the pager on the living room table.

It was not his, and it was not John´s that he knew of. And to be honest he knew a lot about John.

He grabbed the little machine, saw the address written on the screen and dashed out, hoping he wasn´t too late.


End file.
